


I Care Not if You Kneel

by kingsandkeys, snarkreactor (kingsandkeys)



Category: Far Cry 5, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, i will finish this eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsandkeys/pseuds/kingsandkeys, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsandkeys/pseuds/snarkreactor
Summary: Every single one of them is a sinner, but none of them are beyond redemption. Rookie Deputy Barton's got people on his side, and they'll happily save the Seed's souls.





	1. The King's Taken Back the Throne

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally not written fanfic since 2004. Please give constructive feedback.  
> This will be a series of one-shots, spaced randomly through the timeline until I get my shit together. Sorry.

                James hasn’t slept for more than four hours in a row since he came back from Germany. And even in Germany, he only slept because of the powerful meds the doctors at Landstuhl pumped into his IV. It doesn’t matter when he sleeps, or where, or what he imbibes beforehand, he’ll sleep four distinct hours and awaken.

                Today is different, though, and more special, when he awakens. He and his brothers had spent hours unloading a giant van the day before, hours moving and decorating, falling dog-tired into bed at near midnight, and so his tiny gasp awake at 4 am is to a new home. He’s seen it before, more than once before moving in, so it’s not disconcerting or strange, besides the silence of it. Neither Erik nor Clint snore, so their rooms are silent walls in the darkness. There are no traffic sounds, and none of the environmental noise of a bustling metropolis.

James wanders downward to the first floor of the sturdy old farmhouse. It’s only his years of training and skill, on top of years of habitual sneaking-out, that keeps him from hitting any of the creaky spots on the old stairs. He finds the kitchen bathed in long lines of pre-dawn moonlight; enough that he can fill the electric kettle and start a cup of tea without turning on the lights.

                It had been Erik’s idea for an electric kettle, several years before, and James has often found himself grateful for the ease of it all. Sometimes, in the dark, you need ease.

                As the water grumbles and hisses to itself, James stares out into the night. In the yard, more a fallow field really, he can see the white glow of Clint’s archery targets, piled haphazardly against the shed, as-yet not set up for the former Olympian. Beyond them, beyond the grey-tan of the moon-bright fields, he can see the black smudge of forest, the darkness yawning between grey trunks. The anonymity of the space calls to him, beckoning. But the kettle gently burbles, clicking quietly as it switches off, and he comes back to himself.

                James might have time in the morning to explore. And if not today, every day after, in their new home. So, for now, he fixes himself chamomile tea, to lull his body to rest, and returns to his room.

 

 

                This first morning, Erik believes he is the first to rise. It is 6:30, and the tea kettle is cold, and the sun is slowly peeking through the mountains. As he crafts his own tea, he can see on one side of the house a small golden field, fallow but fertile. On the other, a ground-in vehicle path and the side of a mountain falling away into a green valley. They’d chosen this home for its seclusion, its hidden nature amongst the wilds. Erik and Clint had deemed it safe for James’ pain, and yet close enough for Clint’s new career.

                Erik grows awake enough to tend to his own career, so he retreats to the little room they’ve dubbed ‘the office’. He fetches his laptop, and the tiny network adaptor that catches signal from satellites. Both he sets up on the generic wood of his Ikea desk, and powers up. First, he finds any emails from his publishers or his current harpy manager, and, finding none different from the day before, he opens a document to craft an ode to the slowly-brightening Montana wilds outside the office window. He does not hear when Clint awakes.

 

               

                Clint has always been an extremely reluctant morning person. He’s often had careers that require his participation at or near sunrise, but he’s never owned up to them with grace. Today is no different. He is attempting to train his body to awaken at 7 am, knowing his shift at the sheriff’s station more than half an hour away starts at 9 next week, but today he feels lethargic. There was a lot of lifting and carrying the previous day, and he’s not sure how he’s awake right now.

                Clint stumbles into the kitchen. That damnable teapot is warm and fairly fresh, but he scowls at it, nonplussed. The coffeemaker, Clint’s first-unpacked possession, is quickly set to work. He stares at it working, impatient and mostly-asleep. The creaky footsteps on the stairs do not register in his mind.

                James, often a silent observer, slips into the kitchen and smirks at Clint’s oblivious back. He patiently waits for Clint to retrieve a cup of coffee before he lightly hums a “good morning.” Clint jumps nonetheless, only his reflexes saving the coffee in his hands. James lets free a rare smirk.

                “You need a bell!” Clint exclaims, cradling his coffee mug to his chest.

                “Honestly? You’ve said that since we were sixteen.” James passes his brother and pours hot water into a mug of high-octane tea.

                “My point fucking remains, Jay.” Clint makes a noise of disgust deep in his throat.

                James rolls his eyes, but a tiny twitch lifts the corners of his mouth. “Any plans today? It’s Sunday in a new town. Could be stuff going on.”

                Clint fidgets, uncomfortable. “Well… Yeah.” He sticks his face into his coffee for several long seconds, then sighs. “Last week when I finalized my paperwork, we, uh, were invited to the weekly cookout. Adelaide, the realtor, invited us.”

                James’ face screws up, but he thinks. This is a new home, a small town, and the best way to nip small-town-nosiness in the bud is to be open and direct.  He’d rather walk around openly and let people gawk all at once than hear the whispers through town. “Fine.”

                Clint flinches in confusion. “Uh…?”

                “Yeah, fine, but we have to bring stuff, right? It’s probably potluck.”

                “It is….” Clint trails off, watching James search the boxes marked ‘Pantry,’ and pop open the nearly empty fridge.

                “Erik can bring his weird Danish cookie things, since we still have a tin left, we have a case of beer, and we have the ingredients for cowboy caviar, if you want to make it. Seems like beans would fit right in around here.” He huffs a tiny laugh, and Clint just stares at his brother, more alive than he’s been in weeks. He shrugs helplessly as he moves to the office door.

                “Hey E, Jay decrees that you’re giving up the last tin of your småkager. We’ve been invited into town for a cookout.” At Erik’s distracted assent, still absorbed by his clicking keys and the sun outside the window, he returns to the kitchen, where James has already collected every canned thing necessary for the mixed bean dip. “Hey Jay, are you… happy to be here?”

                James takes a swig of his tea and gazes out the window. He hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “I wanna try to be.”


	2. As If We're Only Mouths to Feed

                Mary May Fairgrave, proprietress of the Spread Eagle, the only bar in Falls End, Hope County, Montana, has happily guided the traditional Sunday cookouts for the many years since her own mother’s passing, despite only being 24 years old. Church ends at 11, everyone collects on the closed-off Main Street with their potluck offerings by noon, and eating, drinking and making merry commences shortly thereafter. Even Pastor Jerome joins in, partaking of a nice cold beer or two.

                The few newcomers to town are always invited to the cookout, no matter their religious affiliation, and she’s always excited to see a new face. This Sunday, she’s ecstatic; there are 6 new faces invited, all of whom are, so rumored from the big-mouthed real estate agent Adelaide Drubman, single men. She’s met the Seed brothers in the last few weeks, and while they’ve been busy every Sunday ‘til now, they’ll be coming to their first cookout, along with the boys up the mountain.

                The boys up the mountain are three young men with different last names who claim to be adoptive brothers. She’s seen them from afar during the few visits they’d made before buying the old Litman place, up by Rattlesnake Trail, and every one of them is more gorgeous than the last. They hadn’t committed to attending the cookout, but she has hope. The Seed brothers, while still handsome, are a little too odd for her tastes. One of ‘em’s even a preacher, for goodness sake.

                Speaking of, 11:45 and the Seeds arrive. Mary May and Sharky Boshaw are setting up long folding tables while the man’s cousin, Hurk Drubman Jr., mans the huge grill. The Seeds’ expensive, huge-ass pickup pulls up down the street, and the three men climb out. Boshaw doesn’t seem to notice Mary May stopping to watch their approach.

The driver, John Seed, is impeccably groomed, too fancy for the town, with blue-tinted sunglasses and a gorgeous trench coat patterned in airplanes. He looks like he stepped from a fashion spread, even though he is a relatively tiny 5’5”. Joseph, the preacher, is plainly clothed, average height, a little skinny, but he has long hair pulled into a bun and an expensive-looking pair of gold-tint sunglasses on his face. The eldest, Jacob, a large, muscular man with red hair and extensive facial scarring, is the least fashionable, with a beat Army jacket and worn blue jeans. All three wear long neatly-trimmed beards, similarly to the local fashion.

                They join the crowd, carrying a couple covered dishes that they deposit on the buffet. Pastor Jerome greets them with excitement and proceeds to introduce them around, seemingly friendly with Joseph in particular. John chats easily, a lawyer by trade and seemingly by nature. Joseph is smooth and calm and friendly. Jacob is near-silent. They are welcomed amongst the crowd, a mix of those they’ve met and those they haven’t. Mary May continues to watch them from the corner of her eye as she returns to setting up.

                The meat is near done some twenty minutes later under Hurk’s expert hand, especially since Nick Rye had turned up with a portable grill and a grin, when a large, topless Jeep whips into town. It pulls up neatly just past the church, right at the edge of the cookout, and three new men emerge. Multiple people in the crowd stop to watch the newcomers with curiosity.

                The first is a giant. Blond hair cascades to his mid-back, partially held up in a braid, the rest a wild tangle of curls. He towers above even Jacob Seed, 6’6” to Jacob’s 6’3”. His mouth, framed by a thick wild beard, is stretched into a pristine white grin. Besides the beard, his faded, well-fitted red flannel shirt makes him blend into the local male population.

                Behind, leaping agilely from the open back, somehow balancing two large Tupperware, is a much shorter man. Maybe 5’8”, this man makes up for his height by having incredibly broad and defined shoulders. His trim waist and hips in comparison make him look almost petite. He stands behind the giant with a crooked grin, scuffing a freckly, bandaged hand through his short sandy hair. His teeth are slightly crooked in a clean-shaven, boyish face.

                The third man is nearly unnoticed. He’s slipped from the passenger side of the Jeep with no fanfare, slid into the shadows behind the other two with no sound or excitement. But he’s there. Mid-way in height between the two, he is built like a brick wall. His body is broad and finely muscled, and his sculpted face is movie-star handsome. He would be perfection, except for his left arm ending at a stump above the elbow. He is currently using his shoulder-length brown hair as a shield for his exhausted eyes from the curious glances of the Falls End citizens.

                Mary May licks her lips in anticipation. She is not the only one.

 

 

                John has always been attracted to pretty things. He’s a magpie by nature, drawn to the shiniest, the newest. Even his new house, being built at the bottom of Holland Valley, is the picture of pretty, new.

                And these men, the “boys from the mountain,” certainly qualify as pretty.

                Joseph may have saved John from his sins, from the smoky hotel rooms full of sweat-soaked bodies, from the drugs, from the booze, but he never saved him from this. His lust, his greed for beauty.

                John bites his lip nearly bloody, gently peeling the label from the terrible alcohol-free beer in his hands, as he watches the huge blond one make his rounds through the townspeople. The dark-haired one, once he’d been introduced, had faded into the shadows somewhere, so the blond one is center stage. He laughs loudly, a thunderous boom rattling across the crowd. Sharky Boshaw is already calling him ‘Thor,’ despite the man’s insistence that he’s Dutch, and therefore has no connection to the Norse gods. He giggles like a child every time someone calls him the godly moniker, though.

                “Erik’s used to being mistaken for other nationalities.” John almost jumps out of his skin from the sudden voice beside him. The smaller brother, the one John had obviously forgotten, sandy-haired and broad-shouldered, is suddenly on John’s left.

                He snickers at John’s startlement. “Sorry! Sorry. I’m very unintentionally sneaky.” He scratches gently at the back of his neck. The pose highlights his gorgeous biceps, and the lovely mixture of bruises and freckles all along his arm. John finds his mouth dry, and takes a swig of ‘beer’ to unstick his tongue.

                “For big men, you and your dark-haired brother are very quiet.” The man preens at John’s inclusion of him in the group of ‘big men.’ He’s not really, merely bigger than John, who is, in all honesty, below-average height.

                “James. The shadow’s name is James.” The man, Clint is his name?, smiles a little half-smile. “And you’re John, right?” He sticks out a hand for John to shake.

                “That’s right, John Seed.”

                “Clint Barton.” Something about his name sticks in John’s head, and he cocks a look at this unassuming blond…. It takes 10 seconds, 15, then it clicks.

                “You were in the Olympics a few years ago. Am I right?” Clint chuckles, a blush crawling beautifully across his freckled cheeks.

                “Wow, I’m surprised, since it was more than a few. It was like, 8 years ago, man. Got a bronze and joined the Army.” John inspects the man as he drops his eyes, and seems uncomfortable, sad. Like a dream had passed.

                “Why didn’t you try for higher the next time?” John loves the Olympics. Loves the pinnacle of humanity competing for a prize. It all falls back to his magpie nature. Young people of all shapes and colors at the peak of their lives striving for something. He loves that shit.

                “One, have you seen how many medals South Korea gets in archery? The rest of the world is fucking wrecked by them,” He grimaces. “Pardon my language.” John merely smirks and shrugs. “Two, my father died. Had to help support James.” He sighs, “Archers don’t get a lot of sponsors. No one wants to see Kim Soo-nyung on a Wheaties box.” His pronunciation of the Korean name is flawless. John has “dated” enough Koreans to notice.

                John quirks his brows. “Are you the oldest?”

                Clint shakes his head with a deprecating chuckle. “Nah, Erik is, of the three of us, but we weren’t the only ones in the family. He was working off a green card, but he wasn’t a citizen at the time and couldn’t really support us both.” He shrugs. “Our dad had a huge heart. James and I were just the last in a line of kids he fostered or adopted. But the others are older and couldn’t help, you know?”

                John doesn’t know. His adoptive parents, the Duncans, were the worst of humanity, human refuse, and John had been the only recipient of their idea of ‘charity.’ “How many kids did your parents adopt?”

                Clint laughs. “Me and James, our sister Natalie, and our brother Tony. Tony is almost ten years older than I am; both have their own lives. Natalie is about my age, though we’re not positive, but she’s been backpacking the world for maybe 7 years now, and she’s usually unreachable. But Phil and Maria fostered so many more. Erik, Rhodey, Daisy, god… Like six or seven more.” John knows his mouth is open in shock as Clint huffs an almost unamused laugh and takes a huge, silent swig of the beer he’s been fiddling with, some sort of fancy import. “Maria, saint as she was, died right after James was adopted, but Phil never gave up on us. Even though I was old for an adoption.”

                “I was also adopted. Only child for the Duncans.” John doesn’t know where the confession comes from, the words just crawling up his throat. “Jacob and Joseph are my blood brothers, but we’d been separated as children.” He reins in his tongue before he explains how or why they’d been separated, before he explains the pain of his adoption. Clint side-eyes him all the same, eyes full of some sort of knowledge. As if he can see the story John is catching in his throat.

                “I’ve got a blood brother out there somewhere. You’re lucky yours wanted to rejoin you.”

                John grimaces. “Joseph saved me from the life I was living.”

                Clint tips his head. He looks a lot like a golden retriever like that. “Saved? Saved from what?”

                “I made a lot of bad choices in my younger years – the years before Hope County.” John doesn’t specify, only watches Clint with a strange light in his eyes. Gleaming, prying, curious.

                “Yeah, Hope County is our reset button too.” Clint gazes over the picnic, his eyes lighting on Erik, laughing and smiling, and James, tucked carefully in the shadows of the church.

 

 

                James is observant. He doesn’t speak much, he doesn’t do much, but he watches very carefully. The crowd around the church is friendly and jovial, the food is simple and safe, but he still finds himself vigilant. He sees a few others around that have the same wary look as he: the lovely woman named Grace, dressed still in tactical clothes and the long gaze of a fellow sniper, the Pastor Jerome, with the bodily awareness of someone carrying a concealed weapon. The silent giant Jacob Seed, tense amongst family and neighbors, watching exits and waiting for violence, hand twitching beside a thigh-holstered knife.

                James sees all of this and wonders if this is his home. If these are finally his people. In New York, he’d never found his people beyond his own family.

                He watches Jacob, watches him watching the crowd. Approves of his vigilance, and maybe his beautiful bone structure. The gleam of his beard, copper in the sun. He sidles closer, unnoticed. Erik remains the distraction, loud and exciting, and Clint seems to be deep in discussion with Jacob’s youngest brother. James weaves around a last group of chatting people, and slides into the large redhead’s space.

                “Hi.”

                Jacob stiffens. He was taken off-guard by James’ speech, but he was careful to mitigate his response. James clocks it as training, both military and personal. Jacob has trained himself into passivity, but James has trained himself into analysis.

                Jacob grunts. James, long-since drilled by his therapists to social awareness, decides to take it as a greeting.

                “The sun reflecting off the church spire keeps making me check my six,” James offers, quietly. “It’s pretty fucking annoying. My neck kind of hurts.”

                Jacob actually snorts, then looks faintly irritated by it. James decides to take it as a good sign.

                He turns to actually face the man and sticks out his hand to shake. “James Barnes, sergeant, 10th mountain division, Baghdad.”

                Jacob faces him and shakes his hand. His hand is very warm, and the scars dappling the back are softer than they look. “Jacob Seed, sergeant, 82nd airborne, everywhere.” Both men chuckle at the same time.

                “I worked with a few 82nd in Afghanistan, though I suspect it’d be after your time, Sergeant.” They both grin briefly, Jacob with a small nod, before James affects a pout. “Aw,” James finds himself shocked to be saying. “Here I was, hoping you’d have to salute me.” Their hands are still linked.

                Jacob quirks his mouth in the tiniest of smirks. “I still could if you ask nice.”

                James withdraws his hand, slowly, feeling the heat leave trails on his skin. “So, All-American, what brings you ‘n’ your brothers all the way out to Hope County?”

                “Could ask you the same, Mountaineer.” Jacob’s voice is low, almost intimate.

                “You tell me yours, I’ll tell ya mine.” James shrugs, and is suddenly acutely aware of the lightness of his left sleeve.

                “Mm, your accent comes out more when you’re flustered. Brooklyn?” James nods. “Alright,” and he must be teasing now, because his hint of Southern drawl has widened. “I’m ‘onna need a beer to tell stories. Want one?” James nods again and casts his eyes just to the side of Jacob’s gaze. Jacob flashes wide white teeth in a tiny smile and saunters off.


	3. Take What They Give You and You Keep It Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Time skip smut-fun. Just, uh... roll with it.

                Jacob breathes hard through his nose, snorting like a bull. He’s not as young as he once was, and he had severely underestimated his opponent. In fact, his concern of just being too strong and hurting, or hurting feelings, is why he’s put off sparring James for so long.

                Months of brushing off James’ quiet invitations to fight, changing them to invites to hunt, fish, shoot, go for runs. Anything where Jacob couldn’t accidently destroy the one-armed man, the man he finds himself more and more drawn to… And here he is, having finally given in, more than evenly matched. Probably slightly outclassed, even.

                James is several feet away, braced in a ready position, a ghostly smirk on his face. His hair is pulled back sloppily, as Jacob had never made a ponytail before. Though he’d privately enjoyed the effort. But the messy hair only serves to highlight the sharp jaw, the pleased grey eyes. He’s gorgeous, and so, so cocky.

                Jacob grunts and shoves back to his feet. “Underestimated ya. Won’t happen ‘gain.”

                “Hmm, we’ll see.” James stays ready, waiting for Jacob to charge, which he does. Jacob dodges James’ first kick, getting inside his guard, blocks his right fist, feels victory – And is totally unprepared to get popped in the face by James’ left arm stump. He stumbles backwards as James gives a light cough, all that passes for a laugh for him. But they’re both smiling now.

                “Fighting dirty?” Jacob lunges again before James can ready.

                “Ain’t dirty if ya’ just underestimate me,” he gasps.

                They spar back and forth, both with tricks up their sleeves, neither truly gaining any ground until finally, James sweeps Jacob’s legs. As he goes down, he snags James’ shirt and they go down together in an unwieldy heap. James lands almost gracefully directly on Jacob’s lap. Where he’s sporting the noticeable beginnings of an erection.

                “Oh!” Jacob, who flushes if he so much as blinks wrong, is amazed to find that James even can blush. Also, how fast and bright said blush can be. “Sorry!” James tenses to stand up and off Jacob’s lap, but Jacob’s hands settle tightly on his hips, holding him in place.

                He stares down at Jacob’s inscrutable expression, watching his ice-chip blue eyes as they slowly dilate. Jacob licks his lips, a flash of pink in the red of his beard, and rasps, “You can say no. Any time.”

                James is only confused for the length of time it takes Jacob to sit up and shove their mouths together. He’s never kissed someone with a beard before, and a small part of his mind is busy cataloguing the sensations of mustachebearditchyhairwhat, but the rest of his mind is seemingly a wash of static. Somehow really pleased static. He musters himself just enough to both put his hand on the back of Jacob’s neck, holding him tightly in place, and respond to the kiss.

                At the first, tentative touch of tongue against his upper lip, Jacob groans. He opens and meets the tongue with his own, startling a small noise from James. James, who was once known widely as a charmer with a new date each weekend, finds himself unable to stay passive for long.

                The simple kisses turn heated. Each kiss is a fight, a spar for dominance, a show of strength. Gun-callused hands roam; one pulling lightly at fiery hair, one roughly tilting a stubbled chin, one grasping tightly at a tense, muscled thigh. Long minutes pass.

                James breaks away first. He is gasping, flushed red, with his wood-dark hair, loosed from its tie, clinging to his sweaty forehead. He’s got beard-burn around his mouth and his half-closed eyes are nearly all pupil. Jacob cannot breathe for how lovely he looks.

                Jacob just wants to continue. To kiss and bite, touch and hold and feel, and to take, take, take. To let his blood pump and rush in his veins. But the shy closedness of James’ normal expression is creeping back in. The hair not stuck to his sweat is slowly falling in slightly greasy clumps in front of his eyes. Jacob soundlessly hisses through his teeth.

                “Was that enough for now?” he asks, calmly and not at all unkindly. James only nods.

                Jacob is aware of James’ periods of overstimulation, of eventual shut down. He’s been there himself. So, he simply gently helps James up off his lap, both now sporting a very interested erection, and then helps him to stand. He tucks one strand of James’ hair behind his ear, and stares into the one grey eye revealed.

                “When you’re ready,” he says evenly, holding all his fire tightly in his chest. “I’d like to do that again.” James’ cheeks again light aflame. He nods. “Go home and rest.” James nods again.

                Jacob takes one chance, and kisses James’ forehead. For just a moment, James leans in to the contact. When he leaves, there’s a tiny, tiny uptick of the corners of his mouth. Jacob takes it as a victory and heads off to the showers to take care of himself.

 

 

                Clint is the only one home when James roars up on his quadbike. He’s had a long, long shift at work, full of paperwork and feuding cattle farmers and nonsense. So, he’s kicked back on the front porch, enjoying the October breeze and a fine New Zealand vodka with a fine dollar store cola, but he startles a bit when James bursts through the tree-line.

                James has come up an old game trail, not quite worn in with quadbike travel. It’s a shortcut he normally avoids due to his one-handed control. He’s stone-faced and yanks the keys from the ignition with force. He doesn’t bother with his usual tarp ATV cover and simply stalks towards the door.

                Clint drops his glass onto the porch with a clink and stands. “Jay, what happened?” No response. James has on what his brothers jokingly call his ‘murder strut.’ His eyes don’t even flicker towards Clint.

                Clint tries again as James comes up the porch steps. “James! What’s wrong?” Still nothing.

                When James comes parallel, Clint, knowing better than to touch him, pulls out his last resort. “Soldat! Otchet!” _Soldier, report!_

                James freezes. He always does at this unsavory reminder of his time in the military. But it always works.

                He turns to Clint, and Clint is startled by the look on his face. He is grimacing, teeth clenched, and his face is on fire a blush. “What?” He grinds out.

                “Where are you going?” Clint chances a few steps closer but stops when he sees James recoil into himself.

                “I’m going to my room.”

                “Why? What’s wrong? Did something happen with Jacob?” Jacob’s name has James flinch, and Clint continues angrily. “If he’s done something, you have to tell me. I’ll take care of it, I swear to god.” He starts inspecting James for wounds or bruising or some kind of hurt.

                James groans, long, low and frustrated. It’s such an uncharacteristically emotional sound that Clint’s eyes snap back to his face. “I… Am going to my room.” He shoves his hand in his face, covering his eyes, and it’s another overtly emotional motion. Clint is baffled. James uncovers his face and fully glares at Clint. The heat of a thousand suns in his eyes. “To masturbate. Because Jacob and I made out during sparring. And I intend to be up there a while, and I would appreciate being LEFT ALONE!” He throws his hand up at the end of his tirade, and storms into the house.

                Clint is left with his mouth open, listening to James’ heavy steps up the stairs. He stands the same for several long moments, before suddenly throwing his fists up into the air victoriously and silently doing an energetic little jig on the old porch. When he has exhausted his gleeful, celebratory energy, he stumbles down the steps to James’ quad and carefully covers it.

                His smile doesn’t falter even when he returns to his seat and his vodka. And when Erik returns home, and is filled in on new developments, his smile is matching.

 

 

                James hasn’t really… touched himself much since he came home. At first, he absolutely didn’t feel any sexual urges. Then, the meds tamped him down to baseline existence: no urges, no wants, no feelings.

                The doctors changed that up, got him on other meds that didn’t erase his mind, and he started to wake up hard again, or pop a boner in a nice warm shower. But by then, he didn’t touch himself out of disgust. He used to use both hands, and now he only had the one. But more than just that, he also didn’t like looking at or touching any of the scars mapped across his body.

                Eventually, he started taking care of it, but more perfunctorily. Not for fun, and very rarely because of actual attraction. He’d gone on a few dates, too, but those ended with a little kissing and no call after. He had, however, locked himself in his closet one night and made a purchase from a very discreet website. He’d grabbed the package while Erik and Clint were out.

                He’s only used the toy a handful of times since he bought it, but god, tonight. Tonight, he has an erection caused by rampant horniness and if he had a left hand, he’d be stuffing fingers in his ass, so toy time it is.

                He stomps his way upstairs, arousal undimmed by his brother’s awkward interrogation. His bedroom door creaks, and he’s normally careful to open and close it slowly enough to be silent, but now he lets the thing screech and slam. The door doesn’t have a lock, for good reason, but Clint knows what’s going down and won’t interrupt.

                James shoves his hand under his mattress, patting around for the little drawstring bag he stashes there. Yanking it free, he uses his teeth to open it and drops the little black plug on the bed. The lube is in the nightstand drawer, and he fetches it before pulling off his workout clothes.

               Finally, James flops naked onto his bed, and his cock, which had softened between the Veteran’s Center and home, starts to plump back up. He pumps a little lube onto his hand and slicks it just once up his shaft, making it jump, before reaching further back and gently touching his hole. He hisses a little, spreads his legs and closes his eyes as he starts to push in.

               Behind his eyelids he’s picturing Jacob. How he looked fighting, sweat dripping into his beard, gleaming in the divots of his scars. How he looked on the ground, eyes blown wide, pink tongue flicking over his lips.

              James imagines what Jacob would look like here, now, braced over James with his own thick fingers stretching James open. He groans, just softly, when his two fingers aren’t enough; they’re just not as thick as he knows Jacob’s would be. He pulls his hand free and reaches over to where the plug has gotten jammed under his left shoulder.

              The sight of his ruined arm pauses him for a moment, but the sense-memory of Jacob’s tongue and lips and teeth, and that confusing sensation of beard, gets him moving again. He pumps a little more lube into the palm of his hand and messily manages to coat the plug.

             The tip is the same size as one of James’ fingers, so it slips in easily. As it widens, it also curves just a bit, so James has to concentrate on it carefully. Finally, the widest part, a burning stretch, then it’s seated, and the curve has it shoving against his prostate. He bites his lips to muffle a needy groan, and when he shifts to a better position, it shifts too.

             He drops his mouth open into a pant and looks down at where his cock is drooling pre-come over a particularly nasty scar on his lower abs. Images flash in his head: what it would look like with his and Jacob’s cum streaked across his abs and chest, what _Jacob_ ’s chest would look like covered in cum. He shifts again involuntarily, making the plug rub him just right.

            It rips a moan out of him, loud, and he’s faintly embarrassed until he decides he does not give a fuck and grabs his cock. It’s still slick and his hand is drenched in lube, so everything is slippery and good. He starts stripping his cock, twisting a little how he likes, and every shift of his abdomen has the toy inside him doing amazing things. He knows he’s making noise, little breathy whines, but he can’t stop.

           His toes are curling, thighs twitching, and all he can think of is Jacob, Jacob, Jacob. Imagining Jacob’s hands, rough with callus, but he’d be so careful and gentle fingering James open. Imagining what Jacob’s cock would look like. From how it looked in Jacob’s sweatpants, it’s got to be big like the rest of him, probably as fair-skinned too. It has to flush just as red as Jacob’s face. James turns his head, rubs his face into the pillowcase.

           God, Jacob’s thighs are huge, he’s got to be able to thrust hard and deep forever. He would touch James everywhere, he knows he would, would kiss him anywhere, and James would arch his neck, and Jacob would bite down and –

          James’ eyes roll and he arches his back as he comes. The arch shoves the plug hard against his prostate, forcing another surge of cum out onto James’ chest. He collapses, boneless, feeling kind of floaty. It only lasts a minute, though, before the plug in his ass becomes a noticeable irritant. He sighs and sets about cleaning up.


	4. There Are Some Debts We Never Pay

                The sun is bleak against the horizon of green mountains. It’s early winter, and there is no warmth or haze to soften the glare. The lack of clouds keeps the landscape from any warmth or protection, and the temperature dips into the high 20s, causing the residents of Hope County to bundle up in coats and scarves. There’s no snow just yet, so boots are few and far between.

                John, born and raised in the Georgian sun, is rather more bundled than the natives. He saw Sharky Boshaw in _shorts_ this morning outside the tiny Fall’s End grocery, for fuck’s sake. He finds himself shivering in the front seat of his gorgeous F-350, heat cranked up, trying to defrost before driving the 20 minutes home to his ranch. The passenger door whips open, delivering a horrible draft, but before John can yell at the intruder, Clint nearly vaults across the seats to kiss John’s warm mouth with his own  excruciatingly chilled one.

                “Babe, I saw your truck and had to say hi.” Clint’s ocean blue eyes are dancing, the weak winter sunlight making them nearly glow. He looks gorgeous, his light tan from the warm autumn playing off the deep green of his deputy uniform, with the sun setting his cornsilk hair alight. John can’t help but lean in and kiss him again.

                “Hi,” he breathes, like an _idiot_ , but he’s long-since accepted that Clint makes his knife-sharp mental faculties swan-dive out the window. He burrows his face into Clint’s neck and can immediately tell that the deputy is heading into his shift and not off from the strong scent of laundry detergent instead of Clint’s clean sweat. “How long before your shift?”

                Clint hums and rubs his hands up and down John’s back. John nearly purrs in comfort, even as the bandages habitually on Clint’s fingers catch and pull on John’s expensive winter coat. Clint smushes his face into John’s neatly-done hair, and John doesn’t even complain about it. “About 15 minutes,” he mutters against nearly-black strands. “Brr, baby, you’re freezing.”

                John grunts. Clint takes it as a question, and answers, “And I get off at 2 am.”

                John pulls back just enough from the embrace to catch Clint’s gaze. “Come over after?”

                Clint smiles and kisses John’s forehead softly. “You’ll be asleep, and your bodyguards don’t like me so much.” His tone on the word bodyguards is petulant, and his mouth screws sideways.

                “I’ll tell them to let you in. Come over, keep me warm in this frigid hellscape,” John mutters as he presses his still-cold nose right up under Clint’s jaw. Clint giggles, but doesn’t move away.

                “John, you have work in the morning, don’t you? A meeting or whatever?” His breath is warm over the top of John’s head, and he’s finally warming up. John groans.

                “How is it you remember my schedule, but somehow forget every morning that you have six steps off of your front porch?” He pulls back to watch Clint, who scrunches his nose and pokes out his tongue. His eyes are sparkling, though.

                Clint leans in and kisses him so, so softly, scratching through John’s beard gently. “I remember stuff that’s actually important.”

                The sentiment is a little too much for John at the moment, so he ducks his head back into Clint’s neck. Clint just goes back to gently rubbing his coat, silent for several minutes. Too soon, he starts to untangle himself from the embrace. John whines, and then is briefly disgusted with himself.

                Clint catches his eyes. “Well, that was adorable.” John rolls his eyes and pushes Clint away.

                “Fine, go be an officer of the law, leave me to freeze alone in my drafty, huge house.”

                Clint reaches over and resettles a small piece of John’s sleek hairdo. He cups John’s cheek. “One,” he says gently. “The house is huge because you designed it and you’re dramatic.” John snorts. “Two, if it was drafty, you’d have sued your contracters the second you got a little chill.” John snorts even harder, holding in laughter. Clint’s sweet smile twists again, just a little. “And you are never alone there, anyway. You’ve always got at least five of Joseph’s groupies rattling around in there. _Guarding_ you.”

                John sighs. It’s an old argument that never resolves. “They’re not groupies, and they are not my bodyguards.” Clint’s the one to snort this time. “They help me with my work.”

                “C’mon, John, because real estate acquisition and corporate law assistants require M-16s and M-110A1s. Which, honestly John, I’m still dubious about the legality of those sniper rifles.”

                “Alright, alright, _Junior_ Deputy Barton,” John’s voice is a little venomous as he hisses out Clint’s title. “I understand you are a law enforcement _officer._ But, you know Deputy Hudson has gone over our permits left-right-and-center. Everything is up-to-date and follows the letter of the law.”

                Clint sighs and lifts his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. John, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He peeks up through his golden eyelashes, sad puppy eyes gleaming. John makes a disgusted scoff.

                “Fine, you’re adorable. I forgive you.” He rubs his beard. “But I’d really like it if you’d stop policing my family, Clint. I know we’re not doing anything wrong, but it’s… stressful, to be between you. To have you question the good work that Joseph’s doing at the church, that Jacob’s doing at the Center.” He leans propped on his fist on the steering wheel, and gazes at Clint’s real, true contrite face. Clint grabs his hand, the right one, and strokes his thumb absently over John’s tattoos.

                “What does this one mean?” He points at the nautical star and five diamonds stretched across the tendons of his hand. John feels a flash of annoyance, bright-hot but easily pushed down, at Clint’s subject change. He breathes through his teeth for a moment.

                “A nautical star is for guidance, for finding your way home. I got it when Joseph found me again.” Clint nods, still only watching his hand. “The diamonds are for invincibility, unbreakable bonds. I got those when we found Jacob.” He swallows sharply.

                Clint looks up. His face is quiet, troubled. “I don’t agree with everything your family does, John. I won’t lie and pretend I do. But…” He leans forward, and John’s breath catches when their foreheads touch in the exact way the Seed brothers have always offered each other affection. Clint’s hand is warm and strong on the back of John’s neck. “I care about you. And I trust you.”

                The soft, earnest admission. The adoration in his tone. The forehead touch. All of it together twists up together inside John. He has the wild urge to tell Clint the whole truth of what the Project is building, what _John_ himself is planning. He swallows it down.  
                “Are you free Sunday?” He breathes instead. Clint leans back with a small smile.

                “If that’s what it takes, I’ll go to church with you.”

                “What? Just like that? I should have asked for more! Damn!” Clint is chuckling and John leans in to give him a solid, sweet kiss. He feels Clint’s smile against his mouth. “Now go to work, Deputy. You’re almost late.”

                They murmur goodbyes as Clint slides out. But Clint scoots around the front of the truck and climbs the footboard to lean in for one last smooch through the driver’s window. John finds himself grinning as he watches his boyfriend jog down the street to the substation on the corner.

                The grin fades, swallowed up in the resurgence of his guilt. He calls Clint his boyfriend. Cares for him, cares for his brothers… and lies straight to his face. Joseph has tried to soothe John’s fears about the sin of lying, saying that lying in the service of God cannot even be considered a venial sin. But John is the Baptist, the Inquisitor of Eden’s Gate.

                John is the one that sees sins most clearly. In himself, as well as others. He stares down at his left hand, at the cardinal sins inked there in stark black. His lovely, manicured nails find the ‘avaritia’ and dig in. He barely even notices breaking the surface, only flinching at the well of blood. He licks the drop beading up.

                He starts up the truck in a daze, mind focused inwards while still concentrating on the road home. He thinks despondently of his sin, of the greed that sits at the center of his lies.


	5. No Place to Hide

                Erik has found in the few weeks they’ve been here that he likes to travel around the county, from damp, rain-soaked woods to high plateau meadows drenched in sunlight. He carries his notebook, marked with a large gold #62 on the cover, and a handful of pens in various colors. Anywhere he goes, once he feels the stirrings of thought, he’ll stop and sit right there, and _write_.

                Today, he’s halfway down a rocky escarpment by the Henbane River, not quite out of sight of the road. Something about the honey-golden light on the water and the grass and the tan stone prompted him to scribble down descriptions immediately. So he’s honestly half-collapsed in the dirt, and probably somewhat concerning looking.

                As such, he’s not very surprised when a Hope County Sheriff’s Department SUV drives past, squeaks to a stop, then reverses. The door slams shut and Erik, still writing, always writing, hears the crunch of boots on gravel.

                “Uh, hello?” A slightly rough, male voice, no real trace of the local accent, calls down to him. “You all right?” Erik finishes his thought in silence for a moment, and the bootsteps start down the escarpment, knocking looses pebbles and dirt. Erik lifts his head.

                The deputy approaching him is young, early-20s, with artfully tousled black hair and big, doe-brown eyes. His pants are too tight and his belt buckle too big, but Erik smiles nonetheless. The deputy freezes a moment, almost imperceptibly. He looks concerned and a little annoyed.

                “Hey, what are you doing down here? I’m a Sheriff’s deputy, do you need help?”

                Erik smiles wider and shakes his head before standing. The deputy keeps looking up and up and up, Erik dwarfing his small stature. “Oh no, I’m sorry to concern you!” Erik has rarely been able to reign in his boisterous nature, and now is no different. “I merely was caught by the light on the river and had to document it!” He vaguely waves his notebook. “But I am most grateful for your intentions to aid me, deputy!”

                The deputy, still staring _upupup_ , his mouth slightly hung open, just kind of nods.

Erik thrusts his free hand forward. “Erik Odensen! Newly-arrived Hope County resident!”

                The deputy takes it, shakes it perfunctorily and lets go. Erik is momentarily struck by the lovely disparity between his own pale skin and the deputy’s tanned and weatherworn hand. “Uh, Deputy Staci Pratt.” His dark brows crunch heavily over his eyes, now holding a spark of curiosity.

                “You’re Barton’s older brother, aren’t you? The one Sharky Boshaw keeps calling Thor?” Erik can’t help but giggle. He likes Sharky a great deal, and enjoys that he already has a friend in the area. Especially since Sharky is as exuberant, and mildly alcoholic, as he himself.

                “Yes, that is me. Though I keep reminding Charlemagne that I’m Dutch.” Pratt snorts.

                “Not gonna lie, Mr. Odensen, I can see where he’s getting it from.” Pratt waves vaguely at Erik’s hair, face, entire body. As he does, Erik notices several dark-wood beaded bracelets clicking together on his wrist. “Well, alright, Mr. Odensen – “

                “Erik, please.” Pratt flashes a tiny smile.

                “Alright, Erik, if you’re okay, I have to get back to the station. Enjoy your day.”

                “You as well, Deputy.” Erik watches Pratt scramble back up the loose soil to the road, and as he drives off. Then he thinks abstractly to himself a few new descriptions, not about the landscape, and squats back down to write.

 

                Clint is hanging upside-down from the pull-up bar they’d installed at the rear of the house when Erik comes loping up the driveway. The slowly-setting sun gleams in his golden curls and he looks princely, majestic. Clint snorts to himself and sits up, deciding the blood must have rushed to his brain. What Erik does look like, is beaming.


	6. And Nothing's On the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No no no

                Clint loves classic rock. He has- _had_ \- a collection of gorgeously well-kept vinyls newly moved-in to the farmhouse up in the mountains. However, one of his very favorites wasn’t even technically classic. James had purchased ‘The American IV’ shortly before his fateful deployment, for Clint’s birthday. He’d been an ass and bought the vinyl alongside the CD, and while he’d been away, Clint had uploaded the CD to his computer, thence onto his phone.

                But his favorite by far was the vinyl version. He loved Johnny Cash’s own work, lived by it, grew by it, became a man by it. You don't get a lot of experience with current music in the circus. But, God in Heaven, those last covers before his death had had heart and so, so much meaning. And the one song Cash had written for the album specifically, in the fair and true medium of vinyl? Magic. Prayer. Love.

                "And I heard, as it were..."

                He’d had many a day driving to his tiny Sheriff’s Deputy job, John in the passenger seat, grinning, to be dropped home before Fall’s End, playing that album through the open windows. Half of the memory is John’s smiles, half is the sunshine. The whole memory is a whirlwind.

                "The noise of thunder..."

                To be honest, that loud night in Joseph’s ("one of the four beasts") church hadn’t scared him as much as it should have, given the similarity of Joseph/The Bible’s words of the Apocalypse.  When Joseph had stared into Clint’s soul, with the archer’s beloved John looking on from his brother’s side, with a desperate but hardened face, and proclaimed, “Behold a white horse… And Hell followed with it.”

                Clint had bit his lip, eyes full of tears, and stared into John’s face, and said, “There’s a man going ‘round, taking names.” And arrested Joseph, with no further words.


End file.
